Chapter 48 September 1969
Helen had presumed the knock on the door at eleven o’clock that evening was Sorcha, come back from Metropolitan either to cry on Helen’s shoulder because it really was over between her and Con, or to pack up her things and move back to Hampstead.
The last person she expected to see was a police officer.
‘Good evening, are you Helen McCarthy?’
‘Yes. Is there a problem?’
‘I’m afraid so. Can you confirm that you’re a director of Metropolitan Records?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to inform you that there has been a serious incident at your business premises.’
‘Oh, God. Who? What? Is anybody hurt?’
‘I’m not at liberty to disclose those details at present. Would you accompany me to the station, madam?’
‘Of course, but . . .’
Helen had been driven in the back of the car to Paddington police station, her mind spinning. A young constable had taken down her statement, which consisted of a description of her movements between five and seven p.m. That was when the ‘incident’ was alleged to have taken place.
‘Thank you, madam,’ said the constable.
‘For God’s sake, can’t someone tell me what the hell has happened?’
‘The detective is busy at the moment, but he’ll be with you shortly to explain.’
‘Can I make a telephone call?’
‘Not at present.’
Helen was left stewing for over half an hour before a familiar face came into the room.
He looked weary. He’d aged in the past few years.
‘Miss McCarthy, I believe we’ve met before.’
‘Yes – although I’m afraid I can’t remember your name.’
‘Detective Inspector Garratt. We talked about the murder of your friend Tony Bryant about three or four years ago.’
That was it. ‘Yes. Please, Inspector Garratt, can you tell me what is going on?’
The inspector sat down and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He eyed her. ‘You really don’t know?’
‘Of course not! Tell me, please.’
‘Oh, Miss McCarthy, it seems you have a propensity for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. At approximately six thirty this evening, an unknown gunman shot at Con Daly and his wife Sorcha in recording suite one in the basement of Metropolitan Records.’
Helen stared at Garratt. ‘No, I . . . Are they—’
‘Mr Daly was not badly injured, but I’m afraid Mrs Daly’s condition is critical. She’s in intensive care at Charing Cross Hospital. The prognosis isn’t good.’
‘I . . . I must go to the hospital now!’ Helen made to stand up but the inspector waved her down.
‘All in good time.’
‘They went after him, tried to kill him like they said they would.’ Helen bit her lip.
‘Who tried to kill him?’
‘Surely you know Con Daly has been receiving death threats for some time? That he has a police protection squad with him night and day?’
‘Yes, I do know that, but having had a brief word with Mr Daly earlier, we think it was someone he, and certainly his wife, knew. Apparently, Mr Daly heard his wife say “hello” just before they started firing. That rather rules out a hit man from any political terrorist group, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes . . . I suppose so . . . I . . .’ Helen put a hand to her throbbing temple. ‘I . . . I’m sorry. This has all been a terrible shock.’
‘Of course. Miss McCarthy, the night security guard says he saw you come up from the basement at about ten past six.’
‘Yes. I’d been to check that Con and Sorcha were still down in the recording suite.’
‘But Mr Daly says he didn’t see you or speak to you. Why would that be?’
‘Because I didn’t want to disturb them, or interrupt their possible reconciliation. Which I’d arranged, by the way.’
‘So you’d arranged for Mr and Mrs Daly to be in studio one together?’
‘Well, recording suite two as a matter of fact, but yes.’ Helen stared at Detective Inspector Garratt. ‘That’s not a crime, is it? I was only trying to help, to get them back together.’
‘And you’re saying they were both alive and well at ten past six?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘I see. Miss McCarthy, are there any other ways out of the building, other than by the front door?’
‘Yes. There are three emergency exits, but they’re kept locked for obvious reasons. The keys are encased in glass above the door, to be broken in case of fire.’
‘Are there duplicates of these keys?’
‘Yes. They’re kept in a locked drawer in my office.’
‘I see. The problem I have, Miss McCarthy, is that the security guard swears that you were the only person he saw leaving the building between six and quarter to seven, the time that Mr Daly alerted him to the situation. None of the emergency exits were tampered with, and the building was searched from top to bottom when the police arrived. It was deserted.’
Helen could feel the sweat starting to drip off her back. Her mouth had gone completely dry.
‘Surely you’re not trying to say that . . .’
‘Say what, Miss McCarthy?’
‘That I . . . that I . . . It’s ridiculous! Just because a security guard says I’m the only person he saw leave, surely that doesn’t mean . . .’ Helen could not even bring herself to voice the words. ‘He could be lying! There’s not a shred of proof. I feel as though you’re accusing me!’
‘I’m doing nothing of the kind, Miss McCarthy. I’m just trying to establish the facts, put together the pieces of this mysterious jigsaw. Would you happen to own a gun, Miss McCarthy?’
Helen blushed. ‘Yes.’
‘For any particular purpose?’
‘I’m a member of a gun club. I’ve taught myself to shoot. I’m a wealthy woman who lives alone. After Tony’s death I felt I should try to protect myself. There are so many madmen around that I thought it was worth having.’
‘And would you be able to show us where the gun is right now?’
‘No. My gun was stolen from my locked drawer. I noticed it was missing a couple of days ago. I notified my local police station at the time.’ Helen put her hands over her eyes and shook her head.
‘I can hardly believe I’m having to answer these idiotic questions.
Why on earth would I want to harm Con Daly or his wife?
He’s Metropolitan’s biggest star, and Sorcha has been living with me for the past two weeks.
She’s my friend. For Christ’s sake, I was only trying to give them an opportunity to be together this evening, not to murder them! ’
‘Well now, these are all questions that will be answered in due course. That’s enough for tonight. Someone will drive you home. I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave your house for a while. You won’t object to someone coming to search the premises, will you? You obviously have nothing to hide.’
‘No, but you can damn well obtain a warrant beforehand. I’ll be instructing a lawyer and I might sue for harassment. This whole conversation has been totally preposterous.’
‘I’m only doing my job, Miss McCarthy. And I’d certainly suggest you instruct a lawyer.’ He stood up. ‘Goodnight.’
Con listened to the beeping of the monitors. He tightened his grip on her small white hand.
‘Sorcha, Sorcha-porcha, please pull through. Come back to me, come back,’ he murmured.
‘Do you want a coffee, Mr Daly?’ The night nurse was behind him, her gentle Irish accent comfortingly familiar.
‘No, thanks anyway.’
The nurse checked the labyrinth of tubes that were attached to Sorcha.
‘Any change?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Keep praying, that’s all I can suggest.’
Con nodded. He shifted his sore arm, bandaged to protect the skin graze he’d sustained from a flying bullet.
‘Sorcha, Sorcha, open your eyes and talk to me, tell me who did this. You saw, you saw. Those bullets were for me, not for you. You shouldn’t have tried to save me. I should be lying there, not you, not you, my love.’
Tears came to his eyes.
He began to hum. Then softly he began to sing the words to ‘Losing You’.
Con felt a slight pressure on his hand. Her eyes flickered open and she moved her head a little. He leant over her.
‘Sorcha, my angel, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here with you.’
She was trying to speak to him, but he couldn’t hear her through the oxygen mask. Tentatively he moved it down to her chin.
Detective Inspector Garratt was watching through the glass. Swiftly he entered the room and went to the other side of the bed, pad and pen in hand.
‘Jesus, can’t you leave us alone for five minutes?’ Con muttered.
‘Ask her, Con.’
‘Ask her what?’
‘Who it was she saw.’
Con nodded. ‘Okay, okay. Who was it, Sorcha? Who was it?’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It was . . . I can’t remem— the name.’ She shook her head in frustration, as DI Garratt scribbled every word she spoke.
‘Sorcha, was it Helen McCarthy you saw?’
Relief came into Sorcha’s eyes. ‘Yes, Helen . . . ask Helen . . . an old friend . . .’
She began to gasp for breath. ‘I . . . love you, Con . . . we love you . . . we love you.’
‘Come now, enough is enough.’ The night nurse was behind him.
Her eyes closed as the nurse returned the oxygen mask to its proper position. Sorcha’s breathing became steadier.
Garratt eyed Con across the bed. ‘There you have it. I’ll leave you to it. I’m sorry to disturb you at such a time, but it’s better we knew.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll pray for her, Mr Daly. We’ll need to speak tomorrow.’
The detective left the room.
Sorcha died at ten past three that morning without uttering another word.
‘Mr Daly, I’m so terribly sorry. There really was nothing we could do.’
Con stared out of the window. He hardly heard the doctor’s words. Dawn was breaking over London. A new day beginning. A day that Sorcha wouldn’t see.
‘If she had been further along in her pregnancy, we could maybe have tried to save the child, but as it was, well . . . she was only just twelve weeks.’
‘I . . .’ Con turned to look at the doctor. ‘What did you say?’
‘The baby. It couldn’t have survived.’
‘What baby?’
‘Mr Daly, are you telling me you didn’t know your wife was pregnant? I’m afraid I just presumed that—’
‘Sorcha was having a baby?’ He could hardly voice the words.
‘Yes. I’m so sorry, Mr Daly.’
‘No, no . . . I . . .’
Con rose from his chair and let out a howl of anguish. He stood up, left the room and began to run blindly down the corridor.
‘Con! Con, where are you going?’
Freddy was sat on a chair at the bottom of the corridor. He followed Con as he began to run down the stairs.
‘Con, please!’
Con stopped on the stairs and turned to look at Freddy. He saw tears were falling freely down Con’s face.
‘My wife . . . my baby . . . Oh, sweet Jesus . . . I killed my wife and my child . . . I killed them . . . I killed them.’